


Accented

by therealamphibiousnewt



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Adorable, Fluff, M/M, Teachers AU, stationary closet make out, they're both teachers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 13:15:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5376581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therealamphibiousnewt/pseuds/therealamphibiousnewt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From a prompt on tumblr, "at school there's an english teacher and an american teacher who mock each others' accents and the whole school ships it."  Pointlessly fluffy Newtmas.  Really really bad accents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Accented

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone has any interest in more idiocy, I'm at tysonrunningfox on tumblr, and I'd love requests to procrastinate more on studying for finals.

Newt glances up from the stack of graded essays in his hands, the scores on top so last minute that the red ink is still smudging, and sees Thomas walking towards him, a dangerous grin on his face. He does not need this right now and he tries not to groan, tries not to give it away that he noticed his fellow teacher at all.

"Fancy a spot of tea, old chap?" Thomas asks as he passes by him, his British accent so horribly offensive that Newt couldn't ignore it if he wanted to.

He tucks the stack of essays under his arm and clears his throat, attempting his best American accent, "Only if by tea, you mean a strong cup of joe."

Thomas's straight face cracks, and he lets out a barking laugh, "no one says that."

"No one talks about a bloody spot of tea either," Newt shakes his head, "and I've never been called old chap in my life."

"Until now," Thomas looks too smug and it's more irksome than it should be. Newt is going to be late to class, when he's already unusually disorganized getting these essays back two days later than he promised, but in that moment, for some reason, a comeback is more important.

"Yeah, I'll mark it down on my calendar as 'the day some bloody idiot called me 'old chap'.'"

"Something to tell your grandkids about," Thomas steps forward and pats Newt on the back, "I'm glad I could help you out."

The bell rings and Newt might as well be a teenager again, the way that the sound makes him jump.

"That's my cue," Thomas thumps him on the shoulder one more time, "shall we meet again, governor," again, in that awful, impossible accent.

"I'll remember my ten gallon hat," Newt drawls, his face oddly hot as Thomas grins again before loping down the hallway towards his physics classroom.

Newt's entire class of juniors falls silent when he walks inside, an odd enough occurrence without their oddly manic smiles, locked on him like they never are when he's saying something interesting.

"Do I have something on my face?" He sets the essays down on his desk with a thunk, hoping it might remind them of their normal behavior.

"We saw you talking to Thomas in the hallway," Teresa says from the second row, her expression an uncharacteristic smirk and Newt squints at her, that uncomfortable heat again rising in his chest.

"He is your teacher, shouldn't you call him Mr—"

"Do you call him Mr.?" Someone calls from the back of the class, sending waves of giggles through the room.

"I call him the worst British accent I've ever heard," Newt clears his throat, picking up the first essay and calling out the name.

"That's funny," Teresa narrows her eyes at him, "he always says you were a Texan in another life."

00000

Newt isn't paying attention as he walks through the teachers' lounge, pulling open the supply closet and stepping inside. The door closes behind him like it always does and he fumbles blindly for the string that acts as the light switch, eyes locked on a would be important e-mail. Some parent complaining about some score on some essay, refusing to acknowledge that their child turned nothing in.

"Looking for this?" The voice jars him and he looks up to see Thomas standing in front of him, the pull string in his hand, the light still off. There's a tiny window in the supply closet, half covered with dirt from re-sodding the football field after last summer's drought and the light that filters through it is yellow and dingy, and apparently perfect for lighting Thomas's cheekbones.

Newt swallows, tucking his phone into his pocket, "yeah, just in here for a pen."

"Not a quill?" Thomas says in that horrible accent, a wide smile stretching across his face.

"I didn't realize we were at Hogwarts."

"If we were, I don't think I'd have so many students who forgot to bring pencils to class," he turns back to the bin, taking five unsharpened #2's from their bin and sticking them in his front pocket.

Newt frowns, because he doesn't want to do this, but that email has left him indignant and even more determined than usual towards the necessity of rules, "Tommy, come on—"

"What was that?" Thomas's cheeks flush, his smile spreading from something practiced to something infectious.

"You know you can't take pencils for students," he shakes his head, "our budget is bloody shit as is."

"No, did you just call me Tommy?"

Newt freezes, "No."

"You did."

Newt wishes he'd never picked this fight. He should have just let stupid Thomas with his stupid accents do whatever he wanted like he always does.

"You know," Thomas starts, suddenly pensive, head cocked slightly to the side, "I have about a dozen students who all insist that you have a massive crush on me."

Newt feels his face light up like someone wrapped a string of Christmas lights around his head, he narrows his eyes, "so you just thought you'd ask?"

"I wasn't curious until you called me Tommy. I thought they were just…kids being kids, but now? Now I'm curious." Thomas leans back against the supply shelves and it hits Newt that he doesn't look particularly offended by the idea of the thing. If anything—no, that's crazy…he looks intrigued.

"Curiosity killed the cat."

"They always leave off the second part of that," Thomas crosses his arms, looking up almost shyly, his eyebrows knit together and casting deep shadows on his face in the half light. "Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back."

He's so smug it leaves Newt with absolutely no choice. No choice at all. 

Newt swears under his breath as he steps forward, pressing his lips to the pencil thief's. It's stupid. He knows it's stupid and that he's going to regret it in the break room tomorrow when no one is calling him 'old boy' and the world is too awkward to bear, but he knows as soon as Thomas's hand cups the back of his neck and pulls him closer that he would regret not doing it more. It's worth it in the moment to feel Thomas's breath quicken, his nose pressing into Newt's cheek.

Thomas's hands find Newt's shoulders, his sides, drifting breathlessly close to the line of his belt across his hips and Newt finds himself leaning in, against, his hands scrabbling in dark hair that feels so right under his fingernails. Newt hadn't realized how much he'd really thought about this until it all comes rushing back at once, day dreamy afternoons waiting for his students to finish their tests, slightly too drunk Christmas parties where he thought about rigging the mistletoe a little too hard. Mornings waking up just clinging to the ghost of some happy thought of a situation just like this one.

Newt isn't thinking straight when he slides a leg between Thomas's, trying to get closer, occupy the same space entirely, but it shocks him out of his impulsiveness when something hard and nearly sharp jabs him in the thigh.

Thomas pulls back with a shallow laugh, his hands still on Newt's ribs, "for the record, those are pencils in my pocket, I'm not just happy to see you."


End file.
